


At Last

by eggsbenni221



Series: The Song in My Heart [5]
Category: Bridget Jones (Movies)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Romance, Songfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-11
Updated: 2019-06-11
Packaged: 2020-03-08 03:30:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,614
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18886297
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eggsbenni221/pseuds/eggsbenni221
Summary: yes, Mark Darcy has been accused of being incapable of doing anything spontaneous or potentially affectionate, but he has a lifetime to make up for it...starting now. (Post Bridget Jones's Baby film universe, with a few book universe references tossed in for fun).





	At Last

**Author's Note:**

> This is part 5 in a short series based on a playlist of songs I created inspired by Mark and Bridget. These follow no specific timeline order. This is pure, self-indulgent fluff. I've always had a fascination with Mark's house and how its colorless emptiness is sort of emblematic of his life before Bridget. What follows is just an outgrowth of that. The focus is more on their relationship than the house itself, which is my way of saying I have no imagination when it comes to interior decorating, but it's sort of the catalyst to the rising action.  
> As always, typos and formatting errors are mine; there are a few random ones that I had trouble editing out, so my apologies. Inspiration for this one comes mainly from "At Last" by Etta James and "Perfect" by Ed Sheeran

> I found a dream that I could speak to  
>  A dream that I can call my own.  
>  I found a thrill to rest my cheek to  
>  A thrill that I’d never known.- Etta James, ‘At Last’ 

> ‘Cause we were just kids when we fell in love  
>  Not knowing what it was.  
>  I will not give you up this time.  
>  But darling just kiss me slow, your heart is all I own  
>  And in your eyes you’re holding mine…  
>  Well I found a woman, stronger than anyone I know.  
>  She shares my dreams, I hope someday I’ll share her home.  
>  I found a love, to carry more than just my secrets  
>  To carry love, to carry children of our own…  
>  Darling, just hold my hand.  
>  Be my girl, I’ll be your man.  
>  I see my future in your eyes.- Ed Sheeran, ‘Perfect’

Mark came slowly awake, a lazy smile overspreading his features as he shifted his position so that Bridget, still asleep beside him, could rest more comfortably in the crook of his arm. Gently, so as not to disturb her, he reached to stroke the back of her hand, catching the flash of gold on his ring-finger as he did. The memory of their wedding the previous day shimmered in the morning light, and were it not for that glint of gold and the warm weight of his sleeping wife nestled against his chest, he might have awakened convinced that it had been yet another of the illusive dreams that flitted in and out of the shadows of his life. After he and Bridget had broken off their first engagement, he’d thought that turning his back on the phantoms that haunted the empty spaces in his heart would be the surest way to defeat them; Unwilling to allow memories of the life they might have had to ensnare him, and yet unable to entirely disentangle himself from their hold on his heart, Mark had left England, never imagining that the threads binding him to Bridget would weather time and distance and somehow pull him back to her side. 

Now, the stir of movement nudged Mark from his memories. Glancing down, his eyes met Bridget’s, and his breath caught in his chest as she raised her hand to his face, gliding her fingertips over his cheek as if trying to imprint the memory of his features in her very skin. In response, he dipped his head to lay his lips on hers, deepening the kiss as she laced her fingers through his hair. 

“Good Morning, mrs Darcy,” he whispered when they at last drew apart. 

“good morning, indeed. I think you’re going to have to kiss me like that every day.” 

“Hmm.” Mark rested his chin on the top of her head. “An amendment to the marriage vow; I promise to love you, honor you, and stick my fucking tongue down your fucking throat all the days of my life.” 

“How. . . poetic.” 

“Well, it isn’t precisely John Keats, but it carried its point.” 

“I agree.” Bridget sighed and rested her head against Mark’s shoulder. “We really did it,” she murmured, eyes shining as she contemplated their linked hands. 

“So it would seem.” 

“So, where’s this mysterious honeymoon hideaway you’re whisking me off to?” 

Mark heaved an exaggerated sigh and rolled his eyes heavenward. “do we need to have another conversation about the fact that a surprise, as the term is generally defined, involves classified information?” Bridget’s mouth formed a predictable pout that Mark wanted nothing more than to kiss, but on-balance, he thought it best to keep his mind focused on executing his carefully laid plans. 

“Well,” she said, “if you want to start this marriage keeping secrets from your wife, that’s entirely your affair.” 

"Guilt isn’t going to work, Bridget." Wriggling in his arms to face him, she kissed him softly on the mouth, just teasing his bottom lip with her teeth as she pulled back. “And neither will that,” he said resolutely, grateful at the same time that the bedclothes currently concealed the evidence of his dissolving willpower. With a mischievous gleam in her eye, Bridget slid one hand beneath the sheets, and anticipating its trajectory, Mark caught it in his own and raised it to his lips, placing a light kiss on the knuckle of her ring-finger. Then, glancing at the clock, he unwound himself from their embrace and sat up, but the next moment, Bridget hooked an arm around him and pulled him back down beside her. 

“I know that look, Mark Darcy, and if you even dare to think about work, we’re not having sex again until Billy graduates from university.” 

Mark kissed the top of her head. “Don’t worry. My mind was more agreeably engaged, I assure you.” 

“Why the rush, then? Are we on a schedule?” she asked, propping herself on one elbow. 

“I’m all yours, my love,” he whispered into her hair, “but I did want to ask, would you object if our plans today included a check on the progress of the house?” 

Since Billy’s arrival and their subsequent engagement, living arrangements had existed largely in a holding pattern. Despite having been abroad for several years and having no intention to return to the home that held echoes of Bridget and dreams of the life he thought he’d irrevocably lost, Mark had never sold his house, knowing even as he invoked excuses of market fluctuations and holding onto a valuable investment that his real reason was rooted less in economic rationale than in emotional attachment. The thought of living there with Camilla had felt, somehow, irreverently invasive, as if the house had become a sort of vessel for Mark’s memories of Bridget—a place where they could be safely preserved without danger of inadvertently reopening the wound with which they were associated. He had, for a brief period, sublet the house and occasionally offered it to international colleagues working in London for long stretches in want of a comfortable place to temporarily call home. After reuniting with Bridget, the discussion of the need for more space to accommodate their family had naturally arisen, and shortly before the wedding, Mark had sensibly suggested moving back into the house. Bridget had pounced, both on the idea and on him for proposing the simplest possible solution to their dilemma. Moreover, in the spirit of making a new start, he’d suggested that Bridget might want to redecorate, to which she’d also agreed after pointing out that redecorating implied that the house had been properly decorated to begin with. Mark had gracefully conceded the point, and the decorating project had morphed into a large-scale remodeling. Mark had teasingly declared that the cost of the alterations could do both for a wedding gift and the next decade’s worth of anniversaries, but in truth, the expense had been nothing next to the incalculable worth of seeing Bridget’s eyes shining with the joy of bringing their dreams to fruition. In the interim, what with the general confusion within the house, they’d been calling Bridget’s flat home until the work was completed. 

In answer to his query, now, Bridget chewed her lower lip. “I suppose we could look in on things,” she agreed, “but I thought you didn’t want me to see it all again until the painters had finished.” 

Mark shrugged. “I didn’t, but I also know that patience is not one of your many virtues.” 

“I’m just lucky you have enough patience for both of us,” she said, leaning in to give him a quick kiss. 

“That, and, given your propensity for procrastination, I thought perhaps gaining a sense of how far along the work has come might expedite the packing process.” Mark gestured vaguely around at the scattering of possessions flung to the far corners of the room, and he couldn’t help smiling at the deep sigh of resignation his comment provoked. “Sweetheart, you’re packing, not preparing to walk to the gallows.” 

“I know.” Bridget yawned and snuggled back into the crook of his arm. “I should probably make a better effort, but really, we’ve been managing.” With another yawn, she turned and reach for her mobile; as she did, her hand nudged a precarious pile of books and magazines on the bedside table that immediately tumbled to the floor amidst a shower of hairpins, makeup brushes, odd socks, a lacy bra, and other flotsam. 

Mark lifted a brow. “Right. You were saying?” 

“It’s fine. I just need to, um. . . tidy up a bit. If you think about it, it’s practical, really, just to have everything to hand in case I need it.” 

“Assuming you can find it,” said Mark, gallantly climbing out of bed and plucking Bridget’s mobile from where it had landed in the rubble. “I believe you were looking for this, Madam?” 

“Right, um, yes. Thanks.” Bridget took it and turned her attention back to restacking the magazines. “I like knowing everything’s in the same place, in case I ever need something in a rush.” 

“Including expired condoms?” Mark quipped, earning a poke in the ribs for his wisecrack. 

“That reminds me.” Bridget reached for her mobile again. “I’m just going to ring Shaz to see how Billy’s managing.” Sharon had generously offered to mind Billy for a long weekend so the newlyweds could have something that resembled a honeymoon. In a demonstration of his promised resolve to make Bridget the center of his world in deed as well as in word, Mark had offered several grand suggestions ranging from Caribbean cruises to Tuscan villas, but in the end, the practicalities of parenthood won out, as both of them were reluctant to leave their son for more than a few days. As a compromise, then, they’d settled on a weekend getaway that could be managed in a short road-trip, both affording them some necessary time to themselves and providing the comfort and security of remaining near enough to Billy in the unlikely event of an emergency. Mark had undertaken to make the arrangements and had, for reasons that he would soon reveal, decided to keep their destination a surprise. 

“Mark?” Bridget glanced up from her mobile as he slid from bed. 

“Yes?” 

“You’re sure you aren’t disappointed? About us deciding to stay close to home and not have an exotic, glamorous honeymoon?” 

“Darling, of course not. The time is what matters; the place is of little consequence. As for it not being glamourous, don’t be so sure.” 

“You’re enjoying keeping me in suspense, aren’t you?” 

“Immensely, but truly, don’t give it a thought. I trust Sharon, and she knows how to reach us if she needs to.” 

“Does she know what your plans are?” 

“Naturally, and,” Mark added, recognizing the gleam in his wife’s eyes, “I’ve given her strict instructions to tell you nothing.” 

Bridget frowned. “Did you make her sign anything legally binding?” 

“I was strongly tempted. Go on; make your call. I’m going to grab a shower.” 

“If you give me a few minutes, I could join you,” said Bridget, waggling her eyebrows. 

“You could, but despite what I said earlier about us not being on a schedule, I’d like to be on our way before our next anniversary.” 

* * *

“Now,” said Mark, linking Bridget’s arm through his own as they approached the front door, “bear in mind that it’s still a work in progress.” 

“I’d really have been happy waiting for the finished product,” Bridget assured him as he slipped the key into the lock. The smells of Fresh paint and highly polished wood greeted them as the door swung open, and before she had a moment to realize it, he gathered her into his arms to carry her over the threshold. 

"Mark!" she shrieked. “What are you doing?” 

“Don’t you trust me?” 

“Not really, given that the last time you tried that trick, you dropped me.” 

“The last time I tried that trick, you were in labor with our son, or have you forgotten?” 

Bridget rolled her eyes. “Would you forget pushing an entire human being out of your vagina, if you had a vagina?” 

“Hmm, my conjecture would be no.” 

Setting Bridget on her feet, Mark placed his hands on her shoulders and gently turned her round, smiling as her wide eyes took in the walls, now painted a soft, robins egg blue, the pristine drapes, and the gleaming polish of the newly-laid wooden floors. For several moments, she simply stood, a crease between her brows as she took in the details of each alteration. Finally, she turned to face him. 

“I don’t understand.” 

“Is there a problem? Because if you don’t like it--” 

“No, no, it’s not that,” she interrupted. “It’s just. . . everything’s finished.” 

Mark enfolded her in his arms and gently kissed her. “Welcome home, my love.” 

Bridget’s eyes filled with tears as she continued to gaze at her surroundings. “You should have done this years ago,” she said finally. “I mean, now it doesn’t look like you just hired a color-blind interior decorator.” 

“Does everything meet with your approval, Mrs Darcy?” 

Laughing, she flung her arms around his neck and kissed him. “It’s perfect! You know it is! It’s just the way I imagined it.” 

“come,” he said, taking one of her hands and resting his other on the small of her back. “Shall we test the floorspace?” He guided her into a slow twirl, gradually gaining momentum before he swept her up and spun her round the room. Eventually they tumbled together onto the sofa, and Mark, catching Bridget’s face in his hands, kissed her deeply, allowing the warm sweetness of her laugh to melt on his tongue. 

“Mark?” 

“Hmm?” 

“You told me the work wouldn’t be completed for a few weeks yet.” 

“Ah, yes. About that. It’s quite simple, really. I lied.” Bridget manufactured an expression of injured disbelief. “Or. . . I maintained a veil of secrecy in order to surprise you, if you prefer.” 

“Much better,” she agreed. “But you know, well. . .” 

“Well?” Mark prompted. 

“I’d sort of like to just hole up here for the weekend.” 

“I see no reason why we couldn’t, if it’s what you want.” 

Bridget frowned. “But how could we? We haven’t even got any food in the house.” 

“by ‘food,’ I assume you mean ‘wine,’ and as a matter of fact, that reminds me.” Taking her hand, Mark tugged her gently to her feet and led her down to a fully-stocked kitchen, including, because this was their honeymoon, several chilled bottles of champagne and a tantalizing box of chocolate-covered strawberries. Bridget stood in the center of the kitchen, frowning and tapping one finger against her chin as her eyes traveled round and round the room. In place of the nondescript, stainless steel that made no distinction between fridge and washing machine was the rich, dark-wood paneling Bridget had selected—the same paneling Mark had told her, untruthfully and with good reason, had been on backorder for several more weeks. Finally, she turned to face her husband. 

“Mark Darcy, you had this entire thing planned all along, didn’t you?” 

“Problem?” he asked, resting his hip against the counter and regarding her, one brow raised. Instead of answering, she crossed the room, wound her arms around him, and raised herself on tiptoe to give him another kiss. As she did, Mark’s mind wandered back to a moment, early in their relationship, when she had vehemently and fairly accused him of being incapable of doing anything spontaneous or potentially affectionate. Had he then known that her expressions of gratitude for such gestures would manifest themselves so delightfully, he might have made more of an effort, but there was no time like the present to make up for missed opportunities. Reaching behind him, he popped open the box of strawberries and offered one to her. For the next moment, he allowed his brain to disengage as he watched her bite into the fruit with a near-orgasmic moan. He tamped down the urge to sweep her into his arms and carry her upstairs that instant at the thought of how her mouth would shortly be otherwise engaged, but they had all weekend; they had the rest of their lives. 

“I have to compliment you for remembering to cover the basic food-groups,” Bridget said finally. 

“Yes, alcohol and chocolate. Basic dietary staples for a weekend of uninterrupted shagging.” 

“But hang on.” That crease of confusion appeared between Bridget’s brows again, and Mark couldn’t resist lowering his head to press a kiss to the spot. “How did you manage all of this? I mean, it’s been such a whirlwind this past week, getting ready for the wedding, you tying up loose ends at chambers so you could take the time off, and you kept it such a secret.” 

“Stealth and secrecy are among my many talents,” he quipped. “but in truth, I did have help. Let’s just say I owe Fatima an exorbitant Christmas bonus. She was immensely helpful in pulling all of this together, not to mention supervising much of the work when I couldn’t be on hand myself.” 

Bridget smiled. “I love her. She’s a treasure, that woman.” 

“She is, and speaking of which, would you like to know what she said to me the day before the wedding?” 

“oooo, do tell.” 

“After we’d seen to everything, she looked straight at me, and she said, ‘I’m glad for you, Mr Darcy. I hope I don’t speak out of turn, but I think you’re happier now. She’s the best, your Bridget, and I hope you never forget that, and I hope you treat her right, sir.” 

“Well, fuck me,” said Bridget. “Forget about a Christmas bonus. I think she deserves a raise for that.” Mark smiled as he pulled her in close for a hug. 

“This is good, Mark,” she whispered, resting her head against his chest. “This is perfect—just being here with you, just being. . . home.” 

“Bridget, there’s something I never told you—something I’ve been wanting to tell you, but I never seemed to find the right moment. It seems fitting, somehow, to tell you now—to tell you here.” She lifted her head, her eyes seeking his, and he cupped her cheek in his hand. “When I saw you at the christening, well, you know the state I was in; I don’t have to tell you.” 

“You asked me for a cigarette,” she commented. “You were stressed. Case dismissed.” 

“Like I said, but that’s not the point. It’s just, well. . .” He swallowed, trying to unstick the words catching in his throat. “When I saw you that night, I felt adrift in the world, and it was a sensation I didn’t fully understand, because I had always been so accustomed to my life moving forward according to a strict compass, but when I came back to England—when Camilla and I ended things, when I saw you at Daniel’s memorial, and then at the christening, it was like the needle on that compass had been knocked entirely off-course, and I didn’t know what to do to recalibrate it. Then, when I held you, when I realized how much I’d missed you, I felt the pieces in my life start to realign themselves. I didn’t know what I was going to do when I came back to England, and I think I’d made up my mind at that point to stay, but holding you again, making love with you, that was the first time I truly felt like I’d come home.” 

“You have to admit,” she said, “we wouldn’t be standing here now if not for all the wrong turns. The way we crossed paths—at the memorial, at the christening, then the pregnancy, Billy—none of those things were fixed points in our lives. We didn’t plan any of them, so I mean, sometimes the best parts of life are the surprises. It’s fine to have plans, to have some idea about where you think you want to wind up, but if the needle on the compass doesn’t get a bit jiggled now and then, how else do you find those detours? Because that’s what mistakes are, really. Sometimes it feels like you’re making all the wrong turns, but then you wind up right where you’re supposed to be.” 

“I suppose you’re right,” said Mark. 

Bridget lifted a brow. “Where’s my diary? I’ve got to write this down.” 

“What?” 

“I think you’ve just set a world record. You’re raising the bar for men everywhere.” 

Mark frowned. “I’m. . . not sure I follow.” 

“We’ve been married what, 24 hours? And you’ve already admitted once that I’m right.” 

“Men do strange things when they’re in love.” 

For several minutes, neither of them spoke. Mark wound an arm around Bridget’s waist as she leaned against him, smiling as she laced her fingers through his. This, he thought, stroking his thumb across her knuckles, was what he’d missed when they were apart—the easy familiarity of the language they spoke when their bodies were in sync. The brushes of fingertips across the back of the hand; the meeting of eyes, the quick kisses carried with them that whisper of reassurance: “I’m herewith you. You’re not alone.” It was easy, in the quiet of this moment with the cogs and gears of normal life temporarily suspended, to believe that past mistakes were not doomed to repeat themselves; the reality, Mark knew, would be the work of a lifetime, but he vowed silently, holding Bridget in his arms, that he would rise to that challenge. He recalled, as he often did during such moments, Bridget’s parting words in the note she’d left for him the morning after the christening—that he had, unintentionally but undeniably, left her mostly alone, and instinctively he drew her closer, dipping his head to brush his lips against her ear. 

“What are you thinking?” she asked, tilting her head up to meet his eyes. 

“Just that, in this precise moment, I think I’d be perfectly content to stay like this forever.” 

“I’m not sure that’s going to be possible. I mean, once we get started on the champagne, I’m going to need the loo eventually.” A ping from Bridget’s mobile suddenly interrupted their reverie. Disentangling herself, she fished it from her pocket and laughed as she read the text. 

“it’s Shaz. She wants to know if the newest members of the smug married club have come down from shag heaven.” 

Mark pulled her close again and bent his head to nuzzle her neck. “No, they fucking haven’t, actually.” 

Still laughing, Bridget put up a hand to nudge him back before typing a reply to Sharon. “I’ve told her I’ll give her a ring after the puppet show.” 

“The. . . what?” 

“I’ll explain later,” said Bridget. “Although,” she added, turning in the circle of his arm to kiss him, “its easier just to show you.” 

“Actually,” said Mark, taking her hand again, “I do have one more thing I want you to see.” Tucking her arm beneath his own, he led her upstairs and into the room they’d designated as Billy’s. Once they’d decided to move back into the house, the overflow of books, toys, and other infant paraphernalia that couldn’t fit in the flat had been relocated here. A jungle of plush animals sat in a heap beside the newly re-finished antique rocker that had once sat in Mark’s childhood bedroom, but it was the item resting on the seat of the chair that drew Bridget’s attention. With a cry of delight, she scooped up the worn, stuffed brown rabbit, eyes brimming with tears as she turned back to Mark. 

“Was this yours?” she asked, cuddling the rabbit close to her chest. 

Mark nodded. “My mother found it, and there’s something else. Hang on.” He crossed to the small bookcase beneath the window, and after several moments of rummaging, produced a thin, battered volume which he handed to her. “I wonder if you’ll remember this.” 

“How in the world did you find it?” she gasped, examining the cover of The Velveteen Rabbit. 

“I asked your mum if she had anything of yours that we might be able to pass on to Billy. It seemed particularly appropriate that she found this. I thought it might serve as a reminder, not just for Billy, but for us—a reminder that the real things in life, the really valuable things, aren’t beautiful because they’re perfect. They’re beautiful because they last.” 

“Oh, Mark!” Bridget dabbed at her eyes with the corner of one of the rabbit’s ears; then toy and book slid from her grasp and fell to the floor as she flung her arms around him. “I love you,” she whispered, resting her head against his chest. “And I promise to always love you, even when you’re old and all your fur is rubbed off.” 

Mark laughed and kissed the top of her head. “I think we’ve got past that point, frankly, but I appreciate the sentiment all the same.” He slid his hands down her hips, cupping her backside and gently but purposefully pressing her between his legs as their mouths met. When he lifted her off her feet, she wrapped her legs around his waist and hooked her hands behind his head to deepen the kiss. 

“Speaking of rabbits,” she whispered, “I’ve got a surprise for you.” 

In the bedroom, Bridget allowed the barest pause to register the vase of fresh roses on the bedside table and the neatly turned down sheets before wriggling out of Mark’s embrace. Instructing him to wait, she hurriedly left the room, returning a moment later with her overnight bag and offering him a coy smile as she disappeared into the en suite. When she emerged several minutes later, having donned the infamous bunny girl costume she’d once worn to Una and Geoffrey’s, complete with ears and tail, Mark could only stare. 

“I thought,” he said finally, “given past events, that I’d had this room thoroughly searched for evidence of live rabbits.” 

“Oh,” Bridget replied, “this is no ordinary rabbit. This one only appears on very, very special occasions.” 

“I see.” Mark held out a hand. “Would you object if I investigated? It’s simply a precaution, but I’ve had several instances of unidentified rabbits appearing at inopportune moments. It’s a fairly routine physical search, I assure you.” Pulling Bridget onto his lap, he slowly and pointedly ran his hands down her back until they came to rest on her cotton wool tail, upon which he delivered a playful squeeze. In response, Bridget thrust her hips forward, causing him to fall backward onto the bed. With his hands still resting on her waist, his momentum pulled her down on top of him, knocking her bunny ears askew. 

“bit keen, aren’t you,” he commented, giving her tail another playful tug. 

Bridget began to make quick work of unfastening the buttons on his shirt. “Well, you know what they say about rabbits.” 

“Yes, but actually, I think it’s time to. . . de-bunny.” The process of undressing followed swiftly and entirely without ceremony, garments flung aside with little care for where they landed. As Bridget reached up to remove the now-crooked bunny ears, Mark gently closed his fingers over hers. 

“We’ll leave that, I think, if you don’t mind.” After hastily readjusting the accessory, Bridget nudged his thighs apart and straddled him, her eyes locked on his as the steady piston of her hips seemed to move in time with his beating heart. Mark’s last coherent thought was of how perfectly his hands fit within hers; of how content he was to trust those hands to guide and steady him as they journeyed into the new world they were creating together. 

**Author's Note:**

> Fatima is the name given to Mark's housekeeper in Bridget Jones's Baby, the book/diary universe. 
> 
> Thanks for reading; comments and kudos are welcome, and please feel free to tweet/follow me on Twitter. @eggsbenni221.


End file.
